J. W. WATERHOUSE - MARIANA IN THE SOUTH - 1897 - CANVAS PRINT

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 (𝑩𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒉, 𝟏𝟖𝟒𝟗-𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟕) - 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉 - 𝟏𝟖𝟗𝟕 - 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎, 𝑷𝒓𝒆-𝑹𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔 - 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 (𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒚𝒔𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒎 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂) - 𝑶𝒊𝒍 𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒗𝒂𝒔 - 𝑯𝒊-𝑹𝒆𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝑹𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝑽𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 ------------------------------------------------𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 (𝑩𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒉, 𝟏𝟖𝟒𝟗-𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 "𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉," 𝒂 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝟏𝟖𝟗𝟕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒆-𝑹𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒊𝒍-𝒐𝒏-𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒗𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝑳𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒚𝒔𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒎 "𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉," 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒗𝒂𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒎, 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒆-𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒕𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒄 𝒔𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒚𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒄 𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔, 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒚𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒄 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒚𝒔𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒎, 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆. 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆, 𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒆-𝑹𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒅, 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆. 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑷𝒓𝒆-𝑹𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝑯𝒖𝒏𝒕. 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒎 "𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂" 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑺𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒚𝒔𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒎 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔, "𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒅 𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆," 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉, 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒚𝒔𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒎 𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂'𝒔 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒐, 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒐 𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒂. 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒚𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆—𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆'𝒔 "𝑴𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑴𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆" 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒚𝒔𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒎 𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒂𝒍. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔. 𝑰𝒏 "𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉," 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚, 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌, 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 "𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒕." 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒕𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒌𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒎 𝒐𝒇 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒓𝒕. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒃𝒚 𝑳𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒚𝒔𝒐𝒏, 𝟏𝟖𝟒𝟐: 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒕, 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐’ 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔, 𝑪𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆-𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒅𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒚 𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔: 𝑨 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕-𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑨𝒏 𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒚 𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓-𝒃𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒆, 𝑰𝒏 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 "𝑨𝒚𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒚," 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒂𝒏, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 "𝑨𝒚𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒚," 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 "𝑨𝒉," 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈, "𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑻𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒏." 𝑺𝒉𝒆, 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒍 𝒔𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒘, 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒔𝒐𝒎 𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒐’ 𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘, 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒍𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝑻𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓, 𝑺𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍-𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒆, 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒆, 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒐𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 "𝑨𝒚𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒚," 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒂𝒏, "𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂, 𝒔𝒂𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏;" 𝑨𝒏𝒅 "𝑨𝒉," 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈, "𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑻𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒏." 𝑻𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒐’𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒂, 𝑳𝒐𝒘 𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒕, 𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑳𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒎𝒖𝒓’𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒆: 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈, "𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆, 𝑻𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒅." 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒅 𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒘’𝒅, 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆. "𝑰𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎," 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒂𝒏, "𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏?" 𝑨𝒏𝒅 "𝑨𝒉," 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅, "𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑰 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒏." 𝑵𝒐𝒓 𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒃 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒕, 𝑵𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒂𝒖𝒍𝒕, 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕, 𝑶𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒚 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒂𝒍𝒕; 𝑻𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎’𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒆-𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒛𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒖𝒏𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒍𝒆𝒏. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒂𝒏, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏, 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕, "𝑴𝒚 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑾𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒏." 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎: 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒌𝒆: 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎, 𝑭𝒆𝒍𝒍, 𝒂𝒏𝒅, 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝑺𝒉𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒍. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓-𝒃𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒚-𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆; 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑺𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒖𝒑 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓’𝒅, 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒂𝒏, 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏, "𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑳𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒏." 𝑨𝒏𝒅, 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒔𝒐𝒎 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘, 𝑶𝒍𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑭𝒐𝒓 "𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆", 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅, "𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆, 𝑻𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉." 𝑨𝒏 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎’𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓, 𝑻𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒚, "𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚, 𝑺𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆." "𝑶 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕," 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆, "𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏, 𝑰𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑻𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒏?" 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝑨𝒏 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎’𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓, 𝑻𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒚, "𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆." 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍, 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒅, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒚 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕, 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍. "𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕," 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒂𝒏, "𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑻𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒏." 𝑨𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒂 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒈, 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒂; 𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆-𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒈, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒏’𝒅 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒚. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒚-𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑳𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓’𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐’ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔, 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒂𝒏, "𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏, 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑻𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒏.